


Who is Bucky?

by Perfectoffering



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Crying, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Road Head, Spoilers, implied non con, mild choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:11:33
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perfectoffering/pseuds/Perfectoffering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Steve are on the run after the events of the movie. Bucky questions who he is. Is he James Buchanan Barnes, best friend to Captain America, or the Winter Soldier sent to kill him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

It's cold and the motel room stinks. The window is cracked open for fresh air, and the curtains rustle. The nagging sound keeps him awake as he lies in the bed. It's too big, too empty. After living in a cyro tank even the cramped two queen room is terrifying. He knows he will not sleep, so he rises to stand by the window and watches Steve. He's fallen asleep while on guard. His head sags down against his chest, rocking slowly back an forth with the rhythm of his breath.

Whether he's on guard to protect Bucky from the world outside the door, or to keep the world safe from Bucky is not entirely clear.

Steve has done his best, he knows. Steve is the only one who calls him Bucky, but the name still doesn't seem quite right, even after all these weeks on the run. The world still calls him the Winter Soldier. Or terrorist, or assassin. Or monster. Monster is the name he felt fits him best.

_Bucky._

That name is like a scab that itches, but he dares not pick at for fear of drawing blood. He chuckles quietly at his own metaphor. He's never been scared of blood before.

Steve believes in Bucky and Steve is a good man. But he knows that Bucky would never have done the things he has done. Bucky would not sit here, fighting the conditioning telling him, against everything, to kill Captain America.

_Eliminate the target._

The thought enters his brain like a bullet. He falls to his knees, clawing at his scalp, fingers catching in the tangles of his long hair. He wants so desperately to be Bucky. He wants so desperately to be the man Steve believes in. He doesn't know how.

Still on his knees, he shuffles towards Steve's sleeping form. A long, muscled arm cradles a gun loosely on his lap. He reaches out, towards the gun or Steve's smooth skin, he doesn't know. The metal of his hand catches in the light for a moment, and a wave of nausea rushes over him. He is not Bucky. He cannot touch Steve.

An unfamiliar sensation is building behind his eyes. A hot pressure, then cool, wet drops roll down his face.

_Why am I bleeding?_

He swipes at his cheeks with his good hand, and looks down at his fingers, shocked to find no red stains. His eyes keep running and he rubs them, hard, trying to wipe it away. He licks his lips and tastes salt.

He hiccups gently and his breath catches in his throat. The sound is louder than he expects and he clamps his metal hand across his mouth. But he is too late and Steve is waking up, rubbing his face.

“Bucky?” He mumbles, still half asleep. “What is it?”

He doesn't know what to do, so he falls back, hand still across his mouth. The fingers of his other hand curl against the rough carpet. He doesn't trust himself.

Steve's forehead creases deeply in concern and he tucks the gun underneath the chair.

“Bucky? Why are you crying?”

_Crying._

The word resonates in his head and knocks loose the memory of what crying is. It's what he is doing right now. He remembers crying. Brief flashes of memory flicker across his vision. Crying over a skinned knee, an abandoned bicycle lying in the street. Crying, silently, while a coffin was lowered into the ground. Crying in an army barack, biting down on the sheet to stop the sound.

Suddenly Steve is there again, and he back in the motel room.

“Bucky, hey man, it's okay.”

Steve reaches out for his face but he flinches away. He craves the other man's touch, but can't let him. It would be too much. Much more than he deserved.

“Come, sit.” Steve points at the unused bed.

He hesitates. He gives in to desire. His muscles unclench slowly as he stands up, and cautiously he lets his hand fall away from his mouth.

He hiccups. He opens his mouth but there are no words in it.

“Don't worry, just sit. I'll get you some water.” Steve grabs a plastic cup from the bed side table and jogs to the tiny bathroom sink. The running water is a soft, gentle sound. Steve stands, made a silhouette by the flickering bathroom light. He puts a finger beneath the stream of water, waiting for it to get cold.

Steve returns to sit beside him, offering the cup. He accepts it, careful not to let his fingers brush Steve's. The other man senses his reluctance and respects it, moving cautiously around him.

“Did you... have a bad dream?” Steve says.

He brings the cup to his lips and lets a gulp of sharp, cold water burn against the back of his throat.

“No.”

“Are you...” Steve pauses. “Are you alright?”

He looks back at the other man, who snorts humourlessly.

“Stupid question, I guess.”

They sit silently. He turns his head away from Steve's gaze. Part of him wants to meet the other man's eyes. Part of him wants to wrap his hands around Steve's throat, press his knee beneath his ribs and crush the life out of him.

_Your mission._

He ignores both of these desires and stares intently at a crack in the baseboard. A tiny, white particle of dust is caught on the jagged edge of the wood. It sways gently with some undetectable wind.

It stands out, miniscule though it is; it is white in a room full of grey.

As he returns from his thoughts, he becomes aware of the heat beside him. His neck feels stiff as he forces himself to turn and face the other man. It's the least he can do.

Steve's eyes are wet, and a tear is caught on the edge of his lower lashes.

“God, Bucky, I don't know how to save you.” Steve's voice trembles and trails off into a whisper. “Are you there?”

Tears start rolling down his cheeks again. He blinks again so he doesn't lose sight of Steve's face through the water.

After the helicarrier, there was debris in the water all around them. He remembers diving after Steve. He shoved aside hunks of twisted metal, searching for the red, white and blue of Steve's suit. His head felt like it was about to explode.

_Reaching out._

He is pulled back into the present as his lips collide with Steve's. His eyes are open, staring into the other man's blue eyes. His hand is around Steve's throat, but Steve does nothing. He pulls away, and then kisses him again. He can feel the muscles in Steve's throat move as their mouths find a rhythm. Steve gasps as their tongues meet, sliding against each other. He doesn't understand what he doing or why he is doing it. But, for the first time since all this began, everything has disappeared. His mind is clear.

He breaks their kiss, letting his hand drop away from Steve. They are both panting. The metal of his fingers has bitten into the skin on the sides of the other man's neck, leaving a perfect impression.

He tries to find words.

_I'm sorry._

Steve says nothing either.

His head begins to fill again, every thought jamming itself up against the edges of his skull. Memory threatens to drag him away.

An arm wraps around his waist and a hand presses gently against the back of his neck. Steve's arms guide him and he makes no attempt to resist. As they fall back against the bed, his arms find their way to Steve's shoulders. Their legs knot together. He breathes in the other man's scent and presses his face into his warm chest. Steve's heartbeat is loud in his ear, and its gentle rhythm carries him into sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a bit more, ahem, explicit.

Steve has not spoken more than half a dozen words to him since they untangled their legs that morning. The hum of the car and wind hissing through cracked windows fill his ears.

He never drives. It's a tactical decision he resents, because if they shared time behind the wheel, they would move faster, and stop less often. Steve still doesn't trust him. Steve knows Bucky isn't all there, even if he won't admit it. He is just a stranger, wearing Bucky's face.

He takes advantage of Steve's concentration on the road to study him. He's leaning against the window, and the early morning light makes his week-old stubble glow gold. An absent minded hand reaches up from the wheel to rub his throat.

The simple gesture stirs something deep in his stomach and he shivers. The range of emotion he's experienced since Steve's fall has been exhausting, but this is different. He feels energized, and he is acutely aware of his blood rushing through his body. He wriggles in the seat, trying to accommodate for the new sensation.

Apparently this emotion has physical manifestations. Blood rushes to his cheeks as well.

Fortunately, Steve's gaze remains fixed on the road. There are no cars in sight. When he can't take the pressure building in his stomach any longer, he speaks.

“Steve.” The name comes out stiffly, and his voice sounds wrong, all wrong.

Steve looks over with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah?” He says.

More blood heats up his face until he feels his cheeks might catch fire.

“Nothing.” He mutters.

Steve looks him up and down. There is no way he hasn't noticed now, but he turns back to the road. Steve's breathing seems to catch slightly.

_Shit shit shit, you fucked up._

Self loathing shoots down his spine, making him hotter than he was before. He's done something wrong, now Steve is suspicious.

_He should be._

He runs through every curse in every language he knows, but the pressure in his lower belly continues to grow. He stares into the side mirror, eyes boring into a face he barely recognizes as his own. Seconds and minutes pass slowly by before he notices Steve glancing over at him. He ignores the other man until a gentle hand squeezes his thigh.

He jerks around to look at Steve. The other man moves to lift his hand up, but he shoves it back into place. Every inch of his skin feels like it's on fire as he reaches over to Steve, running a hand along the inside of his thigh. The engine revs slightly as Steve's leg trembles on the pedal. His fingers trace the path again, this time coming to rest on the hard bulge in Steve's jeans. Steve's knees fall apart, leaving him room to manoeuvre. He fumbles with the buttons and zipper before releasing Steve's cock. He wraps a hand around it and gives it a tentative tug. Steve exhales sharply and he increases his pace. The feeling in his own hips is unbearable and he ruts against the air in time with his hand pumping on Steve's cock.

“Oh god, Bucky.” Steve sighs. The name still sounds wrong, but he is past caring.

He watches closely as the other man closes his eyes and presses his head back against the seat.

“Eyes on the road, soldier.” He growls.

Steve looks over at him and bites his lip as a thumb circles over his tip. Inspired, he ducks down and takes Steve's cock in his mouth. Carefully, he establishes a rhythm, and feels Steve's pulse in his mouth. Steve keeps one hand on the wheel but trails the other through his hair, tangling his fingers in it to press his head gently down. He takes it, feeling Steve's cock slide deep into his throat. After his years of service, he no longer has any urge to gag. But it has never been like this before.

“Oh Bucky.” Steve's voice is husky. “Yes.”

Steve's hand leaves his hair to run down his spine. The other man's nails run across his lower back. His own cock aches as he sucks harder on Steve's, running his tongue over every inch of it. Steve is panting now, his breathing getting faster and louder each time he thrusts up into his mouth. The car wavers slightly on the road, but Steve corrects smoothly.

“I'm going to cum.” Steve whispers.

The simple words twist in his gut, and they both shudder as Steve's cum fills his mouth. He swallows and comes up for air, slumping back into his seat. His breath feels ice cold as it passes over the dampness on his lips. He glances over at the other man, who is watching him. Steve meets his eyes with a careful half smile. His cock throbs and his breathing quickens as Steve reaches into his pants. He eagerly tugs his pants down to his knees as Steve's hand works up and down his cock, agonizingly slowly. He thrusts up into the other man's hand faster and harder. Steve obliges, matching his pace. The friction is too much. Pain shoots down from where Steve's hand touches him. Just before his climax he shoves Steve's hand aside. The other man looks over, blue eyes clouded with concern.

“What's wrong?” Steve asks, full of concern.

“I can't.” He stutters.

His mind becomes hazy, and he fights to stay grounded. To stay there, in the car, with Steve. He is barely aware of Steve braking hard, pulling onto the gravel shoulder.

“Bucky? Are you with me?” Steve lays one hand against his cheek and the other on his real arm.

Random snippets of memories flash in front of his eyes. Waking up from cryo, feeling rough hands on his skin. Steve's hands from moments before, wrapped in his hair. Other hands, not so gentle, shoving his head down. He blinks hard, trying to push all of it away.

“Are you with me?” Steve says again.

He takes deep breaths until he feels steady again. He wriggles in his seat, hitching his pants back up over his hips. Steve's hands drop away, and he sits back, watching with creased brows. There is total silence. After what seems like an age, he restarts the car and pulls back onto the road.

One by one, he focuses on relaxing each muscle in his body. The monotonous road rolls by the window, slowing his frantically rushing mind. When he feels calm again, he glances over at Steve.

“I'm with you.”  


End file.
